


Emergency Protocol Fallout

by audreyskdramablog



Series: Emergency Protocols [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Politics, Pre-Canon, Unrequited Crush, Xenophobia, because apparently that's what prompto's pov demands when i write him, overusing em dashes and italics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2020-01-13 12:34:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18469075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreyskdramablog/pseuds/audreyskdramablog
Summary: Prompto went online on his phone, just once, while Ignis was making their dinner, trying to see if there was any news.It was a massive mistake, of course, because the one thing that everyone has up is footage of a disheveled Noctis leaving the mall with Gladio and a Crownsguard escort. His clothes were dark with blood, his eyes were trained on the ground, and his face was scarily blank. Not Ignis-scary-blank, which makes people scared for themselves, but Noctis-scary-blank where people are scared forhim.The headlines that aren’t focused on Noctis are focused on the total number of casualties, and Prompto just can’t wrap his head around it. Six dead, seventeen injured, and him. His name’s not out there in the media—no one’s is yet, but Prompto knows it’s just a matter of time, and that’sanotherthing he’s trying not to think about—but in between the shock and the outrage and the grief, people are already speculating about why only one of the dead people could be revived.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place immediately after [Emergency Protocol Lockdown.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17412032/chapters/40985948) You ought to read the whole series, but hey. TL;DR version: Prompto was killed during an assassination attempt on Noctis but was revived with a phoenix down. Now we deal with all the consequences.
> 
> I’ve put together an actual outline for a fic for the first time in my life. We’ll see if it works out. Many thanks to the FFXV Book Club discord for pretty much everything.

Prompto grins and spreads his arms wide. “Look, all I’m saying is that I give some amazing hugs, and you’re definitely missing out. We could totally share my bed.”

The corner of Ignis’s mouth twitches. Prompto reins in his instinct to declare the game won because that was way too weak to qualify even as one of Ignis’s smiles. Getting Ignis to smile is normally a game set to hard-mode, but today—is it still today at this point?—it’s nightmare-level difficulty. Which isn’t really a surprise considering they still haven’t gotten word from Noctis or Gladio. The Citadel’s still in lockdown. 

Ignis is handling his stress pretty good, but Prompto has also seen Ignis in the moments leading up to serious binge cleaning. If they were at Noct’s apartment, Prompto knows Ignis would be elbow deep in doing the royal laundry or dusting the baseboards or something. But they’re not, and all Ignis has to occupy himself now is his notebook and phone. The file folder and its secret contents and Ignis’s scribbled notes about potential moles disappeared hours ago, passed off to one of the Crownsguard outside along with murmured instructions that Prompto absolutely did  _ not  _ try to listen to.

(There’s a whole team of Crownsguard out there on the other side of his front door, apparently, just lurking in the hallway of his ratty apartment building. Prompto wants to apologize for the light at the end of the hall that flickers nonstop. And for the fact that they’ve got the most boring assignment in the history of ever. 

He also wants to apologize to his neighbors, who are probably really freaked out about Crownsguard taking up space in the building. They’re not entirely a welcome sight in the refugee district.)

“Prompto,” Ignis says, and Prompto is crossing his fingers that he’s really, truly, hearing some honest-to-Astrals amusement between the syllables of his name, even if Ignis still hasn’t surrendered and smiled yet. He’s worn Ignis down from a flat refusal and a glare to actual engagement on the topic of who gets the bed, which means the odds that he’ll win have improved from non-existent to astronomically unlikely. “I’ve seen you sleep before. I would use neither  _ compact  _ nor  _ considerate _ to describe your typical sprawl.”

Prompto huffs, just a little, and folds his arms. “I’ll have you know I’d be the  _ perfect _ bed-sharer.”

“You pushed Noctis off the couch the last time you two fell asleep watching a movie.”

“He deserved it!  _ I  _ wanted to watch  _ Revenge of the Zombie Coeurls II,  _ not that snoozefest.”

And—hah, victory!—Ignis’s lips curve up, just far enough for Prompto slot it into  _ Mild Amusement _ smile territory without cheating. “Be that as it may, I’d prefer not to be ejected onto the floor at some unexpected point during the night.”

“Okay, how about you take the bed and I’ll take the chair?” Prompto has never had guests over, but he’s pretty sure he’s supposed to give them a bed at least. Even if he didn’t actually invite Ignis over in the first place.

“And make me a monster?” Ignis has the most subtly expressive eyebrows that Prompto has ever seen. It’s just not fair. “I think between the two of us, you deserve to sleep in your own bed tonight.”

That  _ deserving _ bit is skirting way too close to referencing everything Prompto is trying not to think about right now. 

He went online on his phone, just once, while Ignis was making their dinner (and refusing to let Prompto help beyond calling out where his few cooking supplies were hidden in his tiny kitchenette), trying to see if there was any news. 

It was a massive mistake, of course, because the one thing that everyone has up is footage of a disheveled Noctis leaving the mall with Gladio and a Crownsguard escort. His clothes were dark with blood, his eyes were trained on the ground, and his face was scarily blank. Not Ignis-scary-blank, which makes people scared for themselves, but Noctis-scary-blank where people are scared for  _ him. _

(Yeah, Noct’s  _ alive,  _ but is he  _ okay? _ Prompto wishes Ignis knew the answer; maybe then both of them could settle down. Prompto’s running out of silly photo ideas to send Noct.)

The headlines that aren’t focused on Noctis are focused on the total number of casualties, and Prompto just can’t wrap his head around it. Six dead, seventeen injured, and him. His name’s not out there in the media—no one’s is yet, but Prompto knows it’s just a matter of time, and that’s  _ another  _ thing he’s trying not to think about—but in between the shock and the outrage and the grief, people are already speculating about why only one of the dead people could be revived. After a few of those, Prompto closed out his social media apps and vowed to ignore them all for a while.

Ignis's phone buzzes before Prompto can come up with his next argument for why Ignis should take the bed. His phone has been doing that pretty regularly through the evening and into the night, either incoming texts or calls, and sometimes Ignis steps into the bathroom to answer them in as much privacy as Prompto’s tiny studio allows. 

Whatever’s on Ignis’s phone now erases the hard-fought smile Prompto put there. Not only that, Ignis actually  _ sighs _ and pinches the bridge of his nose, above his glasses. 

That’s  _ never _ good, and for a second Prompto hovers on the border of panic, until he reminds himself that if Noctis were in danger, that’s not the expression Ignis would be making. Ignis would be out the door and halfway to the Citadel already, not sighing like he’s tired of someone’s antics. 

“Everything okay, Iggy?”

Ignis glances up at him—not sharp, exactly, but Prompto is suddenly reminded of the way Ignis used to look at him in his first few months of friendship with Noctis. Like Ignis was constantly running calculations in his head regarding Prompto’s—well,  _ everything. _

Ignis closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them again, his expression has taken on a rueful tinge. “Just a small miscalculation on my part,” Ignis says, and the words come out so smoothly that Prompto is tempted to believe him. His phone rings this time, and Ignis frowns and gets to his feet. “Excuse me, Prompto.”

It’s impressive how quickly Ignis can move while still looking like he isn’t in a hurry. Then again, with how cramped Prompto’s apartment is, it only takes a handful of Ignis’s long steps to carry him from the computer chair to the bathroom. The door closes and the fan sputters to life on the other side, loud enough it muffles all but the barest hum of Ignis’s voice.

Huh. 

Well, it looks like he’s got more evidence to stack up in the painfully slim  _ Ignis is human like the rest of us  _ evidence pile. Prompto wonders what Ignis could have possibly miscalculated and if it has anything to do with that folder he passed on ages ago. Then he realizes that now may be his only chance left to steal the computer chair, and he scrambles out of his bed and into it before Ignis can emerge from the bathroom.

Ignis might try to fight him for it if he realizes Prompto only took the chair to force him to take the bed, and Prompto will lose, so Prompto kicks his way over to his computer. The chair’s wheels squeak as it rolls across the worn carpet, but it doesn’t wobble when Prompto spins it around so he can reach his computer and turn it on. It’s the second-most expensive thing he owns, after his camera. It’s also old enough that editing photos takes a lot of patience and it can barely keep up with his gaming needs.

He contemplates taking the opportunity to switch his leather wristband for his old white and green one but discards that idea quickly. His old wristband is more comfortable to sleep in, but it also comes off during the night sometimes. If Ignis is going to stay, then Prompto needs to stick with the leather one.

Prompto drums his fingers on the desk while the computer takes its sweet time booting up. He glances over at his Crownsguard entrance exam progress chart and grins at his new PR scribbled on—

Holy shit, his progress chart. 

Prompto launches himself out of the computer chair. The chart is hanging on the wall, on the far side of his computer monitors, out of view of most of the room. Prompto slides his fingers underneath the paper and carefully—but quickly, fuck, he didn’t even think about it, it’s been up this whole time—pries the tape away from the off-white paint. By some miracle, he doesn’t rip the paper, but his folding is sloppy in his rush to hide the words and numbers. 

There’s no telling how long Ignis is going to be on the phone. Where should he hide the chart? There aren’t a whole lot of options and Ignis could open the door at any moment.

Prompto throws himself at his small bookshelf, which is mostly comics and secondhand thrillers, and shoves his progress chart behind a particularly battered trilogy that’s missing the first book. Ignis would never read a series out of order, right? He’s too focused on the proper way to do things for that.

Prompto’s heart is racing, so he flops onto his bed and tells himself to breathe. There’s no way Ignis noticed it, right?

Ignis would’ve said something, Prompto’s sure. After the—after everything that happened today, Ignis would’ve definitely said something if he’d seen that Prompto was trying to qualify for the Crownsguard. Probably not enthusiastic because Prompto—well, he got himself shot twice, and he didn’t even notice the first one, which is just ridiculous no matter which way he looks at it and that kind of obliviousness probably isn’t high on the list of desirable qualities—but. But something nice, right? 

_ “You did well today, Prompto. Unquestionably so.”  _

The memory of Ignis’s words makes Prompto’s face heat up again. Okay, so Ignis  _ did _ say that. And some other nice things. But he didn’t tie it into getting into the Crownsguard, and Ignis is really deliberate about the things he says and when he says them. If he’d seen the chart, that would’ve been the best time to bring it up. The second-best time to bring it up would’ve been after the short—questioning? interrogation? debrief?—Ignis did with him after Prompto agreed to let Ignis take care of him. But when that was done, Ignis had just gone back to his folder when Prompto assured him he didn’t need anything.

Prompto is about 75% convinced that Ignis didn’t notice the progress chart when Prompto’s phone rings. There aren’t exactly a lot of people in the world who care enough to call him, especially not this late at night, and Prompto lurches upright so he can make a wild grab for his phone.

The caller ID says  _ black cat _ and those two words kick all the air right out of Prompto. It’s Noctis.

Prompto accepts the call immediately. “Hey,” he manages, but it’s more of a croak than an actual word.

“Hey,” Noctis says back, and even though his voice is low and subdued, it still sends a wave of relief through Prompto, strong enough that he can feel it all the way from his toes to the tips of his ears.

Noct’s alive. He’s calling, so that must mean the worst of the danger and the lockdown are over. 

Prompto is aware, distantly, that it’s probably weird to be so happy to hear someone breathing over the phone, but fuck it, he  _ is  _ happy. More than happy. There’s something in his chest trying to work its way free of his ribs —his lungs or his heart or whatever, but he can worry about that later because this call is proof he wasn’t hallucinating after getting revived.

Noct’s alive. He’s safe.

“Prompto?”

He clears his throat and tells himself to stop being a weirdo. “Sorry, I’m here. You—everything good?”

Noctis makes a sound that Prompto can’t interpret over the phone. A lot of Noct is body language, and it’s harder to gauge what’s going on without that. “Yeah. It’s—I’m going to have to stay in the Citadel for a while, but I’m okay. Dad is, too.”

Disappointment chases the relief, hot and sharp, but of course Noct’s safety comes first. It would be beyond stupid to let Noctis go back to his apartment like nothing had happened. Hell,  _ Prompto  _ has a whole security team right now, and he’s as close to nobody as he can get.

“Raincheck on the movie, then?” He does his best not to let his misplaced disappointment leak through.

He must’ve done a shit job though, because Noctis says, “Prompto,” and then he stops talking.

Prompto flops back on the bed and mentally kicks himself while he waits for Noctis to find his words again. Even if Noctis isn’t speaking, Prompto can hear him breathing, and that’s good enough.

“I’m sorry,” Noctis says. It’s the start of a slow-motion avalanche. “For touching your wristband, that was a fucking awful thing to do. I’m sorry. You got hurt, and that wasn’t—you shouldn’t have even been asked to help, but you did, and that—”

Prompto cuts his way in because Noct’s voice is splintering at the edges. “Noct, hey, it’s okay.”

“It’s  _ not _ okay.”

“Shitty choice of words.  _ I’m _ okay, all right?” Prompto tries to sound soothing even though his heart is doing this weird, unsteady beat as his mind skirts closer to all the memories he’s trying not to think about. “The wristband—you were trying to warn me, I get that now. You were probably freaked out, too, yeah?”

“I still shouldn’t’ve done that.”

The fact that Noctis keeps insisting on that point soothes a part of Prompto that he hadn’t realized was still spooked. As long as they’re both on the same page again about his wristband—no touching, ever—Prompto’s more than willing to forget it if Noctis is.

“Dude, I’m over it, promise.”

Noctis makes another of those noises that Prompto doesn’t know what to do with. He’s quieter this time, his voice steadier. “Thanks. For forgiving me, and for what you did. At the mall.”

— _ the bullet hits hard enough that it knocks the breath and strength from his chest _ —

No, nope, definitely not going there right now. Prompto rolls onto his side and curls up a little against the shiver that’s threatening to work its way through his spine. He still can’t quite believe that he died, he really died. He’s been aggressively not thinking about it to the best of his abilities. 

It’s hard to sound lighthearted, but Prompto puts everything behind it anyway. “Hey, I told you I could handle a sprint and a phone call.”

“Prompto—”

“Noctis—” he says it back in the same tone, only wildly exaggerated. It doesn’t get Noctis to laugh, but it does get him to stop, and that’s going to have to be good enough for now. Prompto softens his voice and adds, “Thanks for calling me. S’good to hear your voice, you know?”

“Yeah.” A long pause, then something almost like a sigh. “Yeah, I do.”

“Sap.”

Noctis actually snorts, and Prompto bites his lip to keep from doing a little victory cheer. 

Despite the nightmare of the day, he was able to cheer up Ignis  _ and _ Noctis, even if it was only for a second. His next exhale feels like it purges a lot of his lingering fear and worry. Not all of it, but enough that he might be able to sleep tonight. He’ll take whatever wins he can get.

“You need anything?”

“Nah, Iggy’s taking good care of me. He even called in for my shift tomorrow. Oh, hey, you wanna talk to him? He’s on the phone with someone right now, but I can hand you off when he’s done.”

There’s a beat, then, “No, that’s fine, I’ll text him.”

Prompto frowns. Noct’s not the most demonstrative of people, but Prompto is pretty sure that if he deserves to hear Noct’s voice, Ignis definitely does. Ignis is the one sworn into Noct's service. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Okay.” The decision settles uneasily in his stomach, but he can’t exactly force Noctis to talk to Ignis. Prompto tries to ignore it by switching the subject and decides to go for something outrageous. He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Any ideas on how I can get Ignis into my bed?”

Noctis sputters on the other end of the line. 

Prompto smothers his laugh with his free hand for a second and then keeps going, trying to sound as if he hadn't just tried to break Noct's brain. “Ignis is the _worst_ guest, you know that? He barges in without invitation, won’t let me help him cook my favorite food, and doesn’t even let me do the dishes. And  now we’re having a fight over which of us should sleep in my bed, and he refuses to compromise by sharing it with me. Some diplomat he is.”

“You can’t out-stubborn Ignis.”

“Just watch me. I’m going to fight him for rights to sleep in my computer chair.”

“He goes camping with Gladio all the time. Just throw some spare blankets and an extra pillow on the floor, and Iggy’ll be fine.”

Prompto doesn’t have an extra pillow. “Then I’ll fight him for rights to sleep on the floor.”

“Which is a fight you’re going to lose, no contest.”

“You’re such a jerk,” Prompto shoots back. “Why am I even friends with you?”

And  _ fuck, _ that was the wrong thing to try to joke about tonight, because Noct’s side of the line goes dead silent. 

Prompto can’t even hear Noctis breathing, and his stomach sinks right through the mattress. “Noct—”

“It’s been a long day,” Noctis says right over him, like the last ten seconds never happened. Like if he cuts Prompto off, he can just erase the last exchange from both their memories. “We should both get to sleep. I’ve got breakfast with Dad in the morning.”

Prompto swallows hard and hopes he doesn't make this worse. “Sure, of course. Um. I’ll talk to you later?”

He wishes it didn’t sound so much like a question. He wishes he could see Noctis so he could figure out his body language and know just how badly he fucked up. He wishes he could go back in time and kick his own ass.  


“Yeah. Night, Prompto.”

He wants to say  _ wait  _ or  _ don’t do this to me  _ or  _ tell me you know I was joking, _ but what comes out is a spineless, “Night, buddy.”

And Noctis hangs up without another word.

 

Prompto stares at his phone until he hears the bathroom fan shut off. Then he levers himself off his bed so he can dig up his spare blankets for Ignis.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really didn't think I'd be gone for two months. Oops.

The what-ifs chase memories down a spiral that ends in a restless, haunted sleep. Noctis dreams of a sword plunging through his throat and phoenix downs failing to ignite and Prompto pressing the bloody wristband back into his hands. 

Noctis wakes, dry-eyed and cold, with Prompto’s question in his ears:  _ Why am I even friends with you? _

It’s stupid how much that question hurts. It’s not the first time Prompto has said something like that. It’s always been a joke before, though, something Noctis could easily shrug off. Prompto has said it after heated video games or teasing or terrible puns. 

This is the first time he’s said it where the question lodges in Noctis’s chest and won’t come out. 

Noctis sits up and reaches for his phone to check the time. It’s nearly seven, and there are two text notifications on the screen. The names attached to the texts make his stomach knot up.

The first text is from Gladio:  _ I’ll escort you to breakfast with His Majesty at 9:50. _

If it weren’t for everything that happened yesterday, it would seem like a normal text from Gladio. But after last night, Noctis senses the distance between them in every word. For a moment, he’s tempted to write back, to say that he’s up and can make an earlier breakfast with his father. But he knows Regis, and if his father agreed to ten, that means his entire morning has been rearranged around that scheduled slice of time. The last thing Noctis needs to add to his royal fuckup list is causing a minor scheduling crisis by emerging from his bedroom before anyone expects him to.

The second text is from Ignis:  _ Did something happen last night? Prompto was out of sorts then and continues to be so this morning. _

Noctis would be, too, if Prompto had been the one to practically hang up on him.  _ After _ dying for him, no less.

Fuck. 

(“I simply…” Ignis’s voice is low, barely audible over the whirr of a fan that’s on its last legs. 

“What?”

Noctis doesn’t think he’s imagining the tension in Ignis’s voice. “I had assumed that if Prompto harbored Crownsguard ambitions, it would be with your support. I didn’t intend to violate his privacy further than I already have today.”

“Yeah, well.” Noctis swallows hard, but he can’t clear his throat completely. He can’t figure out how to drag words past the jumbled mass that makes it hard to breathe. 

Once it’s clear words have failed Noctis, Ignis continues in a gentler tone. “Call Prompto. He has been anxious to hear from you. Text me when you’re finished.”)

Noctis opens his text messages from Prompto, but there’s nothing new. He knows Prompto has to be up by now because this is normally when he sends his post-running selfies. Maybe he slept in since he’s technically under guard and couldn’t go running anyway.

—wait, no, Ignis’s text said Prompto is  _ out of sorts _ this morning, which means he must be awake. He just hasn’t texted. 

The electronic silence makes the knots in Noctis’s stomach worse as the morning drags on. 

Shit.

* * *

There is a knock at the door precisely at 9:50, and Noctis—dressed in black slacks, a button-down, and shoes Ignis stocked in case of emergency Citadel meetings—unbolts and opens it a few seconds later. He isn’t surprised to find Gladio there, but he  _ is _ surprised to see Gladio wearing his full-on Crownsguard dress fatigues, not the open shirt he normally favors when he’s attending to his typical duties. Between that and the business-like once-over Gladio gives him, Noctis is a little relieved that he decided for something more presentable for breakfast with his father.

“Hey, Gladio.”

Gladio gives a slight nod to acknowledge the greeting, but he gets straight to business. “His Majesty is waiting in the eastern tower.”

That’s unusual. Normally when they dine together, they eat either in Regis’s suite or a smaller, informal dining hall that’s closer to the kitchens. Noctis wonders if Clarus is being paranoid about allowing Regis to follow his normal routines even after the lockdown is over. 

Then again, there was at least one mole within the Crownsguard. It would be wrong to call Clarus paranoid after everything that happened yesterday.

Gladio steps back to allow Noctis through the door, and with Gladio out of the way, Noctis gets his first real glimpse of the hallway. It’s not as crowded as last night, but there are a pair of Kingsglaive flanking his door and a team of Crownsguard clearly waiting to fall into step.

The half-formed thought that Noctis might be able to grab a few minutes to fumble out an apology to Gladio crumples under their combined presence. Gladio won’t appreciate any attempt to talk about personal things when he’s wearing his formal uniform like armor, and Noctis knows an audience will do his own eloquence no favors. So he lets Gladio lead and tries to ignore the uneasiness at having unfamiliar Crownsguard at his sides and back. 

(He needs to get over that, fast. He can’t keep tensing up whenever he spots a stranger in uniformed black. Six, he hates all of this.)

It’s easy enough to tell which room breakfast will be in thanks to the uniforms flanking the doors. Gladio opens the door partially, pauses to verify that everything on the other side is as expected, and then steps aside to allow Noctis to go through first. 

It’s a small conference room. There is a rectangular table with six wooden chairs spaced around it and an array of covered dishes spread across it. Regis, wearing his royal raiment once again and looking every inch a king, sits at the far end of the table so he faces the door head-on. Clarus hovers behind him, watchful even when the room contains just him, his king, his prince, and his son. 

“Morning, Dad. Morning, Clarus.”

Clarus returns with the same kind of nod Gladio did earlier, and Regis’s expression relaxes into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Noctis. Thank you for joining me.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Noctis sits down at the only other table setting and does not fidget when Clarus and Gladio both step forward to start removing the covers from the food. It’s not often the Amicitias are the lowest-ranking servants of the crown in a given room, but none of the kitchen staff are here, so the two Shields are filling in those roles. Noctis would rather do it himself but putting up a fuss over it would be worse than enduring his discomfort. Once the dishes are uncovered, both Shields step back into their protective positions.

“How did you sleep?”

It’s feels—weird, to go through the opening pleasantries, like this is a normal morning. Noctis reaches for the familiar script and misses. “Not great.”

Regis doesn’t ask him to elaborate. “Carbuncle?”

“My apartment.” Noctis stares at the dishes filled with food but doesn’t serve himself anything. His father would probably appreciate a bit of normalcy after yesterday, but Noctis isn’t great at pretending under normal circumstances.  _ Fuck it, _ Noctis decides, and grabs the garula by the tusks. “Did the Crownsguard find out anything else?”

“I intended to brief you after breakfast, Highness,” Clarus says.

“I’d rather know now.”

“A compromise is in order, then,” Regis cuts in. “Serve yourself something, and Clarus will catch you up to speed while we eat.”

It’s too gently said to be a rebuke, but it stings like one anyway. Noctis nods sharply and grabs the serving utensil for the nearest dish—he’s going to have a muffin to start with, apparently.

The moment the muffin lands on Noctis’s plate, Clarus speaks. “The intelligence division managed to uncover the identities of all eight assassins. Only one was Insomnian; the other seven were Lucian. We’re still trying to confirm how they entered the city, though we believe all seven came in with legitimate border passes.”

“Good to know that most of the people who hate me are from outside the Wall.” 

“We don’t believe that they had a grudge against you specifically. At least, that was not the driving motivation behind their actions. They hoped to capture you, not kill you.”

“Then what were they after?

“It appears they intended to ransom you.”

“For what?”

Regis pours himself a steaming cup of coffee. “To extend the protection of the Wall to the boundaries it had during the height of my father’s reign.”

Noctis fumbles the serving fork; tamagoyaki slips off the edge of his plate. He glances at the ornate head of Regis’s cane, which peeks out over the top of the table. 

Extend the Wall? Regis isn’t even fifty, but he’s completely gray and can’t walk long distances without his cane. A ruling King or Queen of Lucis hasn’t lived long enough to meet their grandchildren since the Wall went up a hundred and fifty years ago. 

(Noctis wants five, six, maybe even seven more years with his father, if the Astrals will give him that. Extending the Wall—they’d be lucky to get even one more.)

“Killing you was their backup plan,” Clarus continues, “if they couldn’t control you.”

Noctis forces his thoughts away from the future and back to the present. “So that’d be some kind of revenge, then, for King Mors abandoning the rest of Lucis?”

“Yes. Three of the assassins lost people to the Empire’s forces in the last few years. We’re still digging into the others’ histories, but we assume we’ll find similar stories there.”

“Then how does Otho Sestius fit in?” 

Clarus’s expression sours briefly. “That’s uncertain at this time.”

Right. Noctis stares at his somehow full plate and does not touch any of it. He scrubs his hand over his face, takes a deep breath, and tries to focus. 

Okay. Some assholes with a grudge wanted to make Regis kill himself faster in a move that would provoke the Empire, and they went after Noctis to make it happen. Or to make Regis suffer the same kind of loss they had just to be vindictive. That’s—

It’s not  _ fine, _ not by any measure Noctis can take, but it makes some twisted version of sense. Except for one thing.

“What about Prompto?”

It  _ bothers _ him that these strangers could identify Prompto by sight and by name. The media was very careful about their coverage of Noctis in high school, and so far as Noctis knows, there were only a handful of pictures of Prompto next to him that ended up in the press. The media is also extremely careful with Prompto. Unlike Gladio and Ignis, who hold official government roles and are considered public figures, Prompto is just a member of the general public.

Their friendship wasn’t a secret at school, but to wider Insomnia? No one recognized Prompto when they were out together unless they were schoolmates, not that Noctis can recall. Sure, the fact that he gave Prompto a royal favor is a matter of record, and since Noctis has given out less than a handful of those, a bit of deductive reasoning on the assassins’ end would have let them figure out Prompto’s identity that way. But they included Prompto on their fake Crownsguard plan right from the start.

_ “We have orders to extract you and Argentum from the area.” _

Maybe Sestius put Prompto on their radar? The Crownsguard ran at least one background check on Prompto in the early days of their friendship. But still—

It would have been simpler to leave Prompto behind. Even if Prompto had figured out something was wrong after they left and contacted Gladio, the assassins would’ve already had Noctis and a head start. Six,  _ including _ Prompto in the plan was ultimately a massive stumbling block for their side. 

For the first time, Clarus hesitates. 

Dread sinks through Noctis like a stone tossed into still water. “Clarus?”

“We believe they intended to use Argentum to ensure your good behavior,” Clarus says quietly, “and then kill him once he was no longer needed.”

Noctis scrambles for some measure of calm. It’s difficult when the only image his mind conjures up is Prompto crumpled in a pool of his own blood. “Even if Dad extended the Wall?”

“Yes. In addition to their general stance that the Crown has abandoned the outer territories, what we have recovered thus far from their electronic devices and social media indicates that they embrace virulent anti-refugee and anti-immigrant rhetoric.”

“That’s bullshit.” They were going to kill Prompto? Because Prompto—because Prompto is his friend and someone they decided to hate? “Prompto’s a Crown Citizen. He’s lived in Insomnia almost his entire life!”

Clarus inclines his head, a silent acknowledgment.

Regis settles his coffee neatly beside his plate. “Noctis, since the investigation is ongoing, I am asking you to remain at the Citadel through the rest of the week.”

Noctis remembers how tightly his father held onto him last night and pushes down his instinctive protest. He might be terrible at having a normal conversation over breakfast, but he can give his father that much. And it’s not like security-mandated house arrest is much different between the Citadel and his apartment. “What about Prompto?”

“Ignis is settling the matter of a security detail before he returns to the Citadel. Please, eat something.”

The concern in those last few words has Noctis ducking his head so he doesn’t have to look at Regis straight on. “Yeah, sorry.”

Noctis doesn’t remember piling all this food on his plate, but he does start to pick at it. His father seems satisfied with the lackluster attempt, and Noctis actually finds himself hungry after the first half dozen bites or so. Really hungry. Which makes sense, considering how little he ate after everything went to shit yesterday. 

For a few minutes, it seems like one of their regular meals together. Regis sustains most of the conversation with occasional interjections from his Shield. He has always been able to fill up the space between them with words when Noctis can’t manage it himself. And it’s not like Noctis has much of an opinion on updates to where Crownsguard teams are stationed with the Citadel’s current security level—it’s enough for him to know they’re there, doing whatever it is Clarus or Cor or whoever have told them to do.

(He would be more familiar with the Crownsguard if he lived in the Citadel. For a half second Noctis regrets moving out, if only because that would mean fewer strangers filling the halls right now.)

Regis eventually leaves the topic of Crownsguard patrols and transitions to one that makes Noctis’s appetite vanish mid-bite: “A candlelight vigil will be held this evening at the Astral Plains Shopping Centre for yesterday’s victims. We are sending a representative of the Crown and Crownsguard teams for added security to reassure the populace.”

Noctis tries to unclench his hands and fails. 

“We are still in the process of selecting the representative,” Regis continues. “It will not be either of us. Depending on the Crownsguard’s risk assessment in the upcoming weeks, we may cancel the royal portion of the winter solstice celebrations as well.”

Relief sweeps through Noctis, followed quickly by shame. Under other circumstances he’d be thrilled to skip out on the formal raiment and the press and the hours spent kneeling sleepless in Shiva’s honor. 

But not at the cost of six dead, seventeen injured, and Prompto.

Even though he knows that the people are safer without him or Regis at the vigil, and it’s probably more respectful to not draw attention away from the people who were  _ actually  _ hurt in all this by showing up with half the Crownsguard as his escort, Noctis can’t help but feel a little like a coward for just nodding his acceptance. 

“The Crown has already offered its condolences to the victims and their families, but if you wish to make a statement of your own, work with Ignis to do so.” 

If Ignis is in any mood to help him after yesterday.

No, that’s not—what the  _ hell. _

Noctis is appalled he thought that. Even furious, Ignis would help Noctis if he asked. Especially with something like that. 

“I’ll—” Noctis clears his throat and tries again. “I’ll think about it, Dad.”

Regis nods in acceptance of that non-committal answer, as if Noctis actually said something of substance. “If you would, take some time to consider what sort of commendation Mr. Argentum would be willing to accept for his service yesterday.”

For dying, Regis means. Because Noctis didn’t have his shit together and Prompto was one of the people who paid the price. Who would have stayed dead if it hadn’t been for the team leader carrying a phoenix down because Noctis brushed off Ignis’s reminder to be stocked up on curatives.

_ —horrifically pale beneath his freckles; his shirt is drenched and dark with blood— _

The food Noctis managed to eat is lead in his stomach. Noctis gives up and shoves his hands in his pockets to hide the tremor threatening there.

“I’ll do that.” It comes out a croak, and the tightness in Noctis’s throat drives him to his feet. He sketches a shallow bow for his father, barely deep enough to be an adequate apology for his abruptness. “I’m going to—I’m going.”

“Noctis—”

“I’m fine.” He turns towards the door. Avoids Gladio’s gaze. “I’ll  _ be _ fine. I just...” He trails off, not quite sure what it is he even needs.

“All right,” Regis says. The compassion in those two words is almost enough for Noctis to break under their weight. “We’ll catch up another time.”

* * *

Halfway back to his quarters, Noctis stops abruptly, and his escort pauses with him. He’s burning up inside, from hopelessness and fury and fear and a bunch of other emotions he has no name for, and he just wants to  _ do _ something. 

Gladio raises an eyebrow at him but doesn’t say anything, simply waiting for Noctis to make his decision.

“I want to make a stop at the armory,” Noctis finally says. And then, because he doesn’t know how to apologize to Gladio, tosses out something like a peace offering, “If that’s not a problem for security.”

Gladio considers him for a moment, then shrugs. “You’re the prince.”

* * *

Noctis takes a seat at his desk and plucks the boxes he got from the armory quartermaster out of the Armiger one by one. By the time he’s finished, his desk is covered in neat rows. Most of the boxes are filled with fragile vials, and each vial is filled with the exact combination of water and minerals and who-knows-what-else several centuries of experimentation with Lucis Caelum magic has been deemed the most effective. One long, narrow box holds five precious phoenix feathers. 

It’s been a while since he worked with his healing magic, so Noctis skips the feathers. 

After a moment, he reaches for the box labeled  _ Potions _ . There are two blank lines on the label for a name and date when the work is complete. Noctis is stuck in the Citadel for the foreseeable future, so he might as well do something useful.

Prompto still hasn’t texted, and Noctis doesn’t know what to say that wouldn’t just turn into word vomit about how much safer it would be for Prompto to not be friends with him. Gladio’s  _ don’t hold it against him for doing my fucking job _ wars against Clarus’s _ and then kill him once he was no longer needed.  _

And tangled up with it all, the confusing mess of his romantic feelings for his best friend. Noctis  _ wants _ to keep Prompto in his life, in whatever way Prompto wants to be there. But he doesn’t know if he can handle Prompto getting hurt again for no better reason than just being in Noctis’s orbit. 

Yet Prompto apparently wants to spend his days as a professional bullet catcher. What else could the progress chart be for? But if he really does want to join the Crownsguard, why didn’t he ever say anything to Noctis about it? 

Noctis doesn’t think they keep many secrets from each other. He tries to be as open as he can whenever state secrets aren’t involved. (Whenever his crush isn’t involved.) They tell each other dumb, embarrassing shit all the time. So why this?

Why is wanting to join the Crownsguard something Prompto kept to himself?

He could ask. But Noctis fucked up their phone call last night, and he’s even worse over text. Hell, he couldn’t even figure out how to ask Gladio to stay behind for a couple minutes so he could piece together the bare minimum of an apology for all of yesterday’s failures.

Noctis needs a distraction. One that will knock him out for a couple hours if he does it right and will actually be useful to someone else. It’s better than curling up in his bed, which is the only other thing he wants to do right now.

So Noctis selects the first vial from the box, cradles it between his palms, and reaches out for the Crystal’s magic.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up! There’s a passing reference to prescription drug addiction in this chapter (not depicted, no named characters).
> 
> Also, I blame [hanalunettes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanalunettes/pseuds/hanalunettes) for the end of this chapter. I was debating whether or not I should do a thing, and hanalunettes’ all-caps comment on an earlier installment of the series made me decide I definitely wanted to. :)

Prompto deadbolts the door behind Ignis and listens to the brief murmur of voices on the other side. After the silence returns, he lets his forehead fall against the door and shuts his eyes.

What the actual fuck is happening to his life?

Ignis laid everything out in simple, straightforward terms for him. That is Ignis’s speciality—cutting through to the heart of a matter, stripping it apart, and rearranging the pieces into a sequence that others can understand. 

Only Prompto’s brain is a glitched out save file, stuck on all the worst parts, every path turning into a critical error that brings the whole system crashing down.

There’s a small bit of relief in knowing that the assassins’ first choice wasn’t to kill Noctis. It’d be better if that  _ hadn’t _ been their backup plan, but—okay, so maybe that does mean what Prompto did at the mall really was as helpful as Ignis insisted it was. So that’s—that’s fine, that’s good, he didn’t get himself killed for nothing. 

But Prompto just can’t wrap his brain around the part where the assassins definitely meant to murder him. He’s no stranger to anti-refugee shit, he’s had a bunch of it thrown his way in Insomnia, but most of that was verbal. None of it ever got to a point where he was literally afraid for his life. None of it ever got to the point where he was basically locked up in his apartment for his own safety. 

He wants to go running. That’s what he normally does when he needs to wear out his heart and his brain. Just put on his sneakers and  _ go.  _ But now he’s got a team of Crownsguard crowding the hallway outside his door, for a whole  _ week _ Ignis said, and maybe longer. He probably won’t even be able to take out the garbage on his own—

“Fuck,” Prompto says to his empty apartment. He grimaces, unlocks the door, and yanks it open before he can talk himself out of it.

Yep, four whole Crownsguard, all staring at him like he’s just broken the rules by sticking his head into the hallway. Prompto tells his brain to shut up and let his mouth run before he loses all his courage. “Hey, so, sorry to annoy you more than I already am, but Ms. Nautia? She’s two doors down.” Prompto points helpfully with the hand that doesn’t have a death grip on the door handle. “Anyhow, she’s this super sweet old lady and I normally check in with her today to see if she needs her garbage taken out because the stairs are a pain in the ass and we’re five stories up and half the time the elevator’s not working. And Iggy—uh, Ignis, Ignis Scientia, right, you know that—he said you guys’d take care of stuff for me outside of the apartment? So if one of you’d do that for me that’d be great, thanks.”

Prompto tries not to gasp for breath; a Lucian man with black, curly hair looks like he’s about to laugh or maybe sneer, but all he says is, “Of course.”

“Cool, sorry to bother you,” Prompto says. He shuts the door and locks it quickly so he can die of embarrassment in what little privacy he has left.

All right. That’s the only thing he really  _ had _ to leave his apartment for, so—so he can just stay locked up in here for a week. 

Prompto nearly bumps his forehead against the door in frustration, remembers that the Crownsguard would probably hear it, and settles for swearing under his breath instead. It’s not like he hates his apartment or anything, but the idea of being cooped up all week is already making his bones itchy. He  _ just _ hit that new distance PR, and if he skips a whole week of running, it’s going to take twice as long to hit that time again. Maybe he can up his weight training exercises? 

It’d be something, anyway. Better than backsliding without a fight. Prompto lets go of the door handle and heads for his bookshelf. He plucks his progress chart out from behind the books—doesn’t look like Ignis found it, good—and hunts around for some tape so he can get it back up on the wall. He tries to smooth out the creases, but the chart still won’t lie completely flat like it used to.

Now what? 

Prompto glances around, spots his phone where he left it on his bed. After a brief debate, he goes to it, and then immediately regrets it when (once again) there aren’t any text notifications or missed call messages. 

Still nothing from Noctis.

They’ve gone longer than this without texting, but reason is losing control of his brain right now. Prompto knows he stuck his foot in it last night, but Noctis—he’s not the type to hold a grudge. This isn’t the first time they’ve accidentally stepped on each other’s toes. They always make up in the end. 

Why the hell did he even joke about being friends with Noctis? As if that isn’t the most important thing in his life? 

Because it is. Even before his adopted parents politely exited his life, the most important person in his whole world was Noctis. And maybe that makes Prompto pathetic and just one badly timed joke away from getting kicked to the curb like the pleb he is, but—fuck. Just fuck. 

No,  _ stop. _

Prompto rakes his free hand through his hair and reminds himself to breathe.

He knows Noctis better than that. He knows Noctis had breakfast with the king this morning, and Noctis probably didn’t get the abbreviated explanation of what happened yesterday like Ignis just gave him. It’s way more likely Noctis is just too busy with the fallout of what happened at the mall to have time to text him. 

Noctis isn’t avoiding him. He  _ isn’t. _

Prompto runs that in a loop in his mind for a bit until it no longer entirely feels like a lie. It steadies him out enough that he finally lets himself flop on his bed with his phone. 

Okay. So if Noctis is too busy to get around to messaging him, what should he do? 

Aggressively pretend that everything is fine, probably. 

After some thought, Prompto arranges his face into an over-exaggerated pout. It takes four shots for him to get the right amount of pathetic into the selfie and a couple minutes to settle on messages he hopes won’t make Noctis shut down the text exchange as quickly as he ended their phone call last night:

_ u sure u cant clone iggy _

_ its not fair i want 1 _

_ headed ur way better be ready _

_ gonna clean ALL the things  _

Not his best work, but—he hopes—it conveys all the right messages. One, Ignis is headed for the Citadel and Noctis, where he belongs. Two, Ignis is stressed to hell and back, be nice to him. And three, Prompto is totally, 100% over what happened last night and really all of yesterday. 

(No nightmares for him, not at all. No dreaming of Noctis being cut down at the mall, too far away for Prompto to even see what happened clearly. No dreaming of Noctis being so distracted by Prompto getting gunned down that Noctis misses the sword at his back until it erupts through his chest. And absolutely no dreaming of looking up from his coffee just in time for the fake Crownsguard to put a bullet through Noct’s forehead.)

What next?

Prompto probably ought to call his boss and apologize for canceling all his shifts this week, but Ignis handled it while Prompto was putting in his contacts and brushing his teeth this morning. And, frankly, even if his boss insisted on it, Prompto would be too worried to come in anyway.  _ So many _ people got hurt yesterday, and as hard as it is to wrap his mind around it, staying holed up in his apartment is the safest thing for both him and the rest of the people in Insomnia.

(He is resigned to losing a week’s worth of pay, but at least he has some emergency fund money stashed away. It’s not a lot, but it should be enough. As long as he's only out work for a week.)

He ends up going through the pictures on his phone. The phone doesn’t have a ton of memory, so he clears it out every couple weeks, either by transferring the good pictures to his computer for further cleanup or deleting the ones that aren’t worthy of the digital space they’re taking up. Prompto lingers on the ones where he actually caught Noctis smiling and tries not to think about how long it’ll be before he can get another one of them. 

Prompto is busy trying to decide between two nearly identical shots of the neighborhood’s stray cat when a text message beeps through and immediately makes his stomach knot up in apprehension:

_ Holy shit, now I feel like an ass for bitching about getting called in to cover your shift. Are you okay? That must have been terrifying. _

It’s from Galla, one of his coworkers, a woman nearly done with her college degree and who works at the camera shop part time. She’s a decent enough coworker—always gets her share of the job done—but grouchy when she gets stuck with morning weekend shifts. 

_ Seriously, though. You okay? Does the boss know what happened? Shit, he didn’t say anything, just started reassigning shifts for the week.  _

Prompto waits, but no additional texts come through. It takes several moments to settle on a response and wording that doesn’t make him sound like he’s thirty seconds from falling apart:  _ I’m okay, really! How did you find out? _

Galla comes back immediately:  _ Your name’s all over the internet, on the casualty list. Are you really the prince’s friend? _

Prompto opens his social media at lightning speed. 

The first thing he finds is the full casualty list, complete with victims' ages. The youngest person who was hurt is four; the oldest is sixty-eight. Prompto swallows hard to keep from succumbing to his nausea when he sees the list divided into three segments: deceased, revived, and injured. 

It’s impossible to ignore that his name is listed all on its own. 

The attackers’ names are publicly available, too, along with the notations of which are deceased and which are injured and in custody. Prompto did that. Not the in custody bit, he was—he was dead at that point, but the injured bit. He remembers the heft of the metal in his hands, how he hurled the chairs with everything he had. The way the man shouted when he was hit, when he fell down the escalator. How Prompto bowled over a second man with the same, desperate violence.

He’s never hurt someone before, not like that, not  _ intentionally. _

Prompto presses a hand to his chest until his breathing steadies out and keeps hunting for more information. What he finds has him curling in on himself on the bed.

The speculation last night about why only one person could be revived was bad enough. It took a turn for the worst in the last half hour, starting with a simple post:

_ Prompto Argentum is Prince Noctis’s friend from high school,  _ it says. Prompto stares at the selfie icon and vaguely recalls one of their classmates, a tall girl who didn’t ever say much to him or Noctis so far as Prompto remembers.  _ That’s probably why he was revived.  _

And beneath that is a mess of comments, from a smattering of other classmates chiming in to confirm their friendship to people wondering if there hadn’t been sufficient phoenix downs to revive people—and if that meant Noctis chose to save Prompto because of their friendship instead of someone else.

It turns vicious then, thanks to a post from an icon Prompto  _ does _ remember. Livius mostly struck Prompto as an insecure asshole in high school and both still seem to be true now:  _ of course his highness chose to save his pet nif over one of his own. _

Prompto knows he shouldn’t read the replies. He does it anyway in horrified fascination. There are all sorts of short, nasty things in the comments, and those he mostly scrolls past without reading, the hate turning into a foul background noise. It’s the longer thoughts that have his stomach churning:

_ If the prince ordered his friend’s revival while he was still on scene, he broke protocol, _ someone claiming to be a retired Crownsguard member writes.  _ Phoenix downs are not to be administered until an area is secure and targets have been extracted. _

Another commenter points out,  _ The percentage of curatives available to Insomnia’s general population has dropped since the creation of the Kingsglaive. Most of the Crystal’s healing magic benefits outsiders now. _

_ These fuckers thinking they’re entitled to everything. You already got inside the Wall, what more do you want? What else are you going to take from us? _

_ The EMTs told us they could’ve saved my grandmother if the ambulance had a phoenix down.  _

_ Do you all really have to do this right now? The vigil is tonight. Maybe let some people grieve and let the investigation finish before you tear everything apart. We hardly know anything right now. _

_ My son had to heal naturally because he wasn’t “hurt badly enough” to warrant a potion. The painkillers they put him on ruined him! _

_ I’m not saying he should have died. I’m just concerned about favoritism if there was any. Is it fair if the prince saves his friend over his other subjects? What makes this Prompto’s life more valuable compared to any other Crown Citizen? _

Prompto loses himself online, jumping from one thread to another, reading post after post and comment after comment. He thanks all of the Astrals, even Ifrit, that his social media account is not connected to his name or anyone in his real life. Ignis scared the hell out of him when he gave his first how-social-media-could-put-Noctis-in-danger lecture in high school, so all Prompto really uses it for is to follow some gaming companies and photographers. None of the content is his own, and he never gave the account name out to anyone at school. Judging from the way people are actually tagging in official government accounts on their rants, he dodged a massive shitstorm by being a lurker online.

At some point Prompto finds himself sitting at the edge of his bed, his left knee bouncing up and down like he’s trying to drill a hole through the floor with his heel. No more internet for him. He tries to get his leg to stop, but the energy has to go somewhere, so he ends up pacing the too-small length of his studio. Six, what he wouldn’t give to be able to go on a run right now.

Yeah, no, he’s not going to hear back from Noctis for a long time. Prompto wonders if Ignis knew what was happening online, and if that’s why he left when he did. Ignis has never offered Prompto a full list of his duties, but Prompto’s about 90% sure that Ignis does handle some public relations stuff for Noctis. Noctis definitely has better things to do right now than respond to Prompto with everything blowing up online.

He’s on his fifty-somethingth circuit of his apartment when his phone buzzes in his hand. Irrational hope still flares inside him, only to crash immediately when he sees that it’s another message from Galla:  _ you take off as much time as you need i will take your shifts by myself if i have to what the fuck _

So much for no more internet. Prompto races back online to figure out just what made Galla send that text. It only takes a couple couple minutes to find the post.

It’s a video with a sensitive content warning. The user—who has some cartoon character Prompto doesn’t know as an icon—added a single line of explanation above it in response to someone else’s speculation about royal favoritism:  _ You're wrong. Prince Noctis didn’t order anyone’s revival. _

Prompto takes three shaky breaths, reassures the content warning that he’s okay with seeing whatever’s behind it, and hits play.

The video is unsteady, likely from a phone being moved quickly, and it takes a few seconds for the blur of colors and lines to resolve into something that looks like—rows of small boxes on shelves? Prompto doesn’t recognize the packaging but he’s worked enough retail to know what a product display looks like. 

Off camera, someone whispers, “Is it over?”

Someone else, probably the person holding the camera based on how much louder the noise is, shushes them. The camera turns away from the products on display, and as the view changes, Prompto realizes the person is using it to peek around the shelving units. 

He sees blood first, dark red on the marble flooring. Then a hand lying in the pool of blood. A black leather wristband. More of his arm, the top of his head, blood soaking his shirt and into his hair, face hidden from the camera’s angle.

“Six,” the camera person whispers. The video wavers. “I think he’s really dead.”

Prompto doesn’t remember making the decision to sit, but he’s on the floor at the foot of his bed while the two people off camera whisper back and forth about the Crownsguard members dragging off one of the assassins, wondering why the others didn’t stop to help the man—him. Fuck, that’s  _ him. _

The two people are busy debating if the lack of battle noises means it’s safe to try to make a run for it when a distant shouting sends the camera jerking back. There’s a whimper, quickly muffled. Then footsteps, someone sprinting, drawing nearer, and—

_ “Prompto!” _

His name, in Noctis’s voice, breaking and desperate, hits nearly as hard as getting shot. Even from the tinny speakers of a crappy camera phone, the anguish in Noctis’s voice has Prompto’s stomach churning. 

Gods,  _ Noctis _ is the one that found him? He hadn’t—he hadn’t even considered that, he just remembers Noctis being there when he woke up for five seconds. Prompto presses his free hand to his mouth and tries to breathe through his nose and the nausea.

There’s the sound of breaking glass, more footsteps approaching. The camera peeks out around the shelving unit again, further this time. Far enough that the video catches Noctis slamming his hand into Prompto’s chest, and there’s more breaking glass and a flare of magic—a potion, Noctis tried a potion. 

Gladio appears in the frame along with several other people in black. Their movements track bloody footprints on the floor. Gladio grabs Noctis’s arm when another potion shimmers into existence between his fingers. “Noct, stop! The potions aren’t enough.” 

Noctis actually  _ snarls  _ as he turns on Gladio. But then one of the Crownsguard—she must be a real one, they all must be real ones, thank the Astrals they finally got there—steps around to Prompto’s other side and kneels next to him, heedless of his blood. He can’t see the moment she produces a phoenix feather, but there’s no mistaking when she uses it. His body arches, spine up, heels down, arms jerking against the floor, as magical fire washes over and through him. He hears himself gasping, wet and thick, and the video ends abruptly. 

Despite his unsteady hand, Prompto manages to hit the replay button.

* * *

Prompto loses track of how many times he watches the video. He eventually stops when he realizes the pain in his stomach has changed to hunger. It still takes a few more minutes to force himself to his feet, and he stretches out to relieve the cramps and tingling in his legs. He feels—

He has no idea. It’s all too mixed up, disbelief and horror and guilt and relief and so much more bleeding into each other until he can’t separate and identify them easily. 

He thought he felt awful for joking about his friendship with Noctis the night before; what he’s feeling now is beyond misery. Prompto wants to call Noctis and apologize, swear he’ll never say something like that again, but Noctis  _ still _ hasn’t responded to his texts and the last thing he wants to do is be more of a burden by interrupting whatever chaos is happening in the Citadel.

It takes a minute for Prompto to register that his eyes are starting to hurt even though he hasn’t had his contacts in for long. But if Ignis is gone, there’s no reason to keep the contacts in. He slips into his bathroom so he can take them out. 

Gods, he looks awful in the mirror. Hair fluffy and unstyled from the quick comb he did this morning after waking up. Face pale now, almost sallow beneath his freckles. Prompto removes his contacts and splashes a bit of water on his face before he puts on his glasses. Not great, but not really worse, either. It’ll do.

He does feel the tiniest bit more alert, though. Enough to finally register the quiet ache in his right wrist. 

He’s had the leather wristband on since Saturday morning, no wonder it hurts. And with Ignis gone and the Crownsguard outside, it’s finally safe to take it off. 

Prompto unbuckles the wristband and sets it on the bathroom counter. The leather has left red impression lines on his skin from so many hours of wear, but they fade a little when he starts massaging his wrist. 

(The lines of his barcode are faintly raised and don’t feel entirely like skin. He ignores that about as well as he usually does.) 

It feels good to have the wristband off for a moment, to let his skin breathe. Maybe he should look into getting a thicker armband, one that wouldn’t have to be strapped so tightly to him but would still cover the barcode. It wouldn’t be the same as wearing Noctis’s favor, but it would be easier to wear for long stretches of time like this. 

Once he feels better, Prompto picks up the wristband. The leather is black and smooth, and the metal studs are cool beneath his fingertips. It’s a physical reminder of his friendship with Noctis, and it is a little harder to worry that he has ruined their friendship irrevocably when he has it. Their friendship is stronger than one badly timed joked. 

Prompto turns the wristband over. The underside is a lighter black than the outside, not as hard or as slick, and the—

Along one edge of an outer strap is a discolored patch of leather, smaller than the nail of his pinky finger. It runs along the edge of the strip, too, but not the outside. Prompto frowns at the stain, rubs his thumb over the splotchy edge, wondering just when he got the wristband dirty. He spilled coffee yesterday, but that was just on his fingers, maybe his palms. He doesn’t remember getting the coffee on his wristband, unless it happened when he threw his drink at the fake Crownsguard on the escalator.  

An idea takes shape reluctantly. Maybe—maybe it’s blood?

Prompto compares the wristband to his arm and—yeah, where the stain is, that’s the way his arm was pressed against the floor. The blood on the outside of the wristband was probably easy to wipe off, but some must have soaked in along the edge to the underside, which isn’t as liquid-resistant as the outside. 

Right. Okay. Time to look up how to get blood out of leather. Someone online has to know. He hopes he can get it out even though it dried—

Wait. 

There wasn’t any blood on his wrist. 

When he took off the wristband, the only things underneath it were the barcode and the impression lines. No dried blood. 

And—and there should be some, right? If the blood dried on this side of the leather, and that’s the side that was against his skin, then shouldn’t there be some  _ on _ him? 

There should be. 

Unless someone took his wristband off long enough for the blood to dry. Long enough to get him clean and then put it back on. 

“Fuck,” Prompto whispers. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the FFXV Book Club discord sprinting crew for keeping me company while I agonized my way through this. Special thanks to [crazyloststar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazyloststar/pseuds/Crazyloststar) and [avianscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avianscribe/pseuds/avianscribe) for letting me spam them with snippets while I worked.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy excessive amounts of paperwork and fictional politics.

Noctis wrenches himself out of a nightmare and wakes to a dark room. It takes a handful of racing heartbeats to realize he is in his bed, which is definitely not where he last remembers being. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes for a moment and tries again when his mind is a little more awake. 

Still dark. Still in bed. Still wearing his button down and slacks, though his belt, shoes, and socks are gone.

He sits up slowly and reaches for his nightstand. His phone is there, neatly plugged in. The screen lights up with text notifications when he hits the home button. 

Including texts from Prompto. Prompto texted him. 

Noctis scrambles to open their chat and finds a pouting selfie and four messages about Ignis headed to the Citadel. The time stamp above them says _Yesterday, 12:37._

He stares at it, dumbfounded. It makes no sense until he checks the time at the top of his phone: _6:19._

It’s Monday morning. Prompto texted him 18 hours ago, and he was sleeping. 

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself. He didn’t think making potions would knock him out this long, even if he overdid it. After all his agonizing yesterday, now he’s the one who ended up ignoring Prompto when Prompto reached out. 

He stares at the screen for a second, but nothing good comes to mind as a reply. What is he supposed to say? _Sorry I ignored you all day, I was sleeping?_ After all that shit Prompto went through?

There is a voice, low and muffled, on the other side of his bedroom door. Noctis squints in that direction—yes, there’s light slipping through the crack between the bottom of the door and the wooden floor. 

There are only a couple of people who can enter his quarters at this hour without being announced. He could go back to sleep, or pretend to be, for a few more hours to buy himself some time. 

Or he could stop being an asshole to _someone_ and actually go out there. 

Noctis swings his legs over the side of the bed to stand—and for a second he isn’t sure if his knees are going to hold him. That startles him into grabbing the nightstand for support before he topples over. 

Shit. Maybe he made a couple bad decisions yesterday. 

Noctis breathes carefully, and once his knees are good, he puts on his slippers and heads for his door. 

Ignis is on the other side. He is sitting at the far end of the dining table, laptop in front of him, papers carefully stacked around his working area like a fence. His hair is down, bangs falling softly across his forehead, and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbows. He has a pen in one gloveless hand, so he can write down notes, and a phone in the other. 

Ignis glances up when Noctis steps into the room in all his rumpled glory. “I need to go now. Have the kitchens send up breakfast for three to the prince’s suite. Yes, thank you.”

“You expecting someone else?” Noctis asks when Ignis sets his cell phone on the table.

“No.” Ignis begins gathering his papers into a single stack. “Sit, Highness.” 

It is somehow worse that Ignis sounds so calm. Noctis expected an icy, carefully contained fury at least. It is what he deserves, after what happened on Saturday. 

_Once this is over, we are going to discuss, in detail, why you felt that was anywhere near an appropriate request to make of me in the first place._

They don’t really need to discuss it. Noctis knows exactly what he did wrong. He still takes his usual spot at the table without protest. Ignis sets his papers and pen on the empty chair to his right and then closes his laptop. 

“You’re pale this morning. How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” 

Ignis glances at him briefly before he sets the laptop on the empty chair to his left. “No weakness? Lethargy?”

Noctis glances away. Ignis has years of practice seeing through his bullshit. “Just unsteady for a second when I stood up. I’m fine, really.”

“You are not,” Ignis says, still calm. It’s a little unnerving, waiting for Ignis’s anger to arrive.  “Water, tea, or coffee?”

He isn’t going back to sleep anytime soon. “Coffee.”

Ignis nods, once, then stands. He immediately heads for the small kitchenette, tucked away at the far side of the room. It isn’t much, not compared to his apartment or the Citadel’s main kitchen, but there’s an electric kettle and an assortment of snack foods and drinks in the cupboards and fridge. 

Noctis watches Ignis prepare their drinks in silence. Normally this is a routine that Noctis finds soothing, but right now every movement on Ignis’s part feels like a countdown. Like once the mugs get set on the table, everything will explode. He tries to cobble together an apology, half hoping that if he can find the right combination of words, he can lessen Ignis’s disappointment in him.

But Ignis is too practiced, too efficient, and before Noctis can sort out something coherent, Ignis sets a mug of coffee in front of him. “Drink,” Ignis says, just soft enough that it isn’t an order. “Breakfast should be here soon.”

“Ignis—”

“Highness.” There’s the edge that was missing in Ignis’s voice earlier. “Drink your coffee.”

Noctis wraps his hands around the mug automatically. Ignis steps back to the kitchenette for his own cup, but he stands there, a hip braced against the counter, instead of joining Noctis at the table.

It feels like rejection. Noctis drops his gaze and focuses on drinking his coffee. Ignis made it sweet, the way Noctis likes it best, but the drink turns sour in his gut. 

There is a knock at the main door by the time Noctis is halfway through his coffee. Ignis deposits his mug on the table as he sweeps past it on his way to the door. One murmured conversation later and Ignis wheels in a service cart and starts setting its contents on the table. It’s less weird for Ignis to serve him than Gladio—most of the time it’s Ignis cooking his food anyway—but it makes Noctis keenly aware of just how much food Ignis is piling in front of him. It’s easily two people’s worth of food; Ignis told the truth about not having someone else join them.

A small thread of hope twines its way through Noctis’s guts when Ignis sets his own food at the other end of the table. It feels—better, more normal, for Ignis to sit across from him for a meal, even if they aren’t typically separated by this much distance in Noctis’s apartment. 

It gives Noctis enough courage to say, “You’re here early.” It’s an opening, if Ignis wishes to take it.

He doesn’t. Ignis makes a quiet noise that’s neither confirmation nor denial. “By my and Gladio’s reckoning, you haven’t had anything approaching a full meal since dinner on Friday night. We will talk after you have eaten.”

Has it really been that long? Noctis frowns at the food spread out before him and tries to ignore the way the smells are starting to make his stomach cramp. It’s either hunger pains or guilt. 

“I’ve had plenty.”

There—Ignis’s lips press thin, briefly, then smooth out in a heartbeat. It’s almost a relief to verify that there is something else lurking behind the calm. “You typically prefer to gorge yourself on popcorn and sugar at the theater, which you were not able to do. In lockdown, Gladio had to goad you into drinking a bottle of water and eating a single serving of chips. Gladio also reported that you didn’t finish breakfast with your father yesterday. You haven’t been supplementing with your cache of snacks, as I have yet to encounter any wrappers, and you were unconscious for the last eighteen or so hours.” 

Ignis’s next words are terribly even, almost distant. “I found you passed out at your desk yesterday. The fact that I couldn’t find the elixir that Gladio said you’d taken from the lockdown room leads me to believe you depleted your own magic creating curatives, and then, despite all the warnings you have received over the years regarding the recklessness of doing so and the very real threat to your physical health, took the elixir so you could create even more potions.”

Noctis wants to crawl under the table. It has been a long time since Ignis has felt the need to give him a dressing down like this. It has been a long time since Noctis earned one.

“So you will eat, Highness, and then we will talk. Not before.”

Ignis starts in on his own food. It takes Noctis several painful moments until he feels steady enough to do the same. 

When he does, his stomach cramps, twists. His hunger yesterday is nothing compared to what is roaring to life right now, and that confirmation just hammers home how horribly reckless he was yesterday. The Crystal’s magic may be an infinite resource, but his body isn’t, and healing magic is a finicky, demanding sort. It’s one thing to take an elixir or two, even three, when he has just been warping; it’s another to do it when the magic itself drags out scraps of his own well-being on its way out. 

There is a reason the amount of curatives available to the people of Insomnia is limited. A second, elixir-fueled round of healing items wouldn’t have killed him. But pushing too far past the limits creating them _has_ killed past members of the royal family. Earlier this year, a talented member of the Kingsglaive had to be hospitalized after giving herself seizures from creating too many healing items on the front. 

Noctis thinks of Ignis finding him passed out at his desk, with entire _boxes_ of healing items around him, and wants to go back to his bedroom and never come out.

He doesn’t. Because he’s made enough terrible decisions and had enough fuckups in the last three days to last a lifetime. The conversation he’s going to have with Ignis is going to suck, and he’ll probably hate every minute of it, but he made the decision to not be an asshole by coming out here, and he’s going to stick to that. 

Ignis notices when Noctis runs out of coffee and gets up to make another cup. He even brings back a bottle of water as well. Noctis mutters his gratitude around a mouthful of food, and Ignis accepts it with a brief incline of his head. He finishes his food well before Noctis and piles his dishes neatly back onto the service cart. Then he pulls his stack of papers off the chair and spreads them out again. Noctis pretends he doesn’t notice how Ignis twirls the pen between his fingers while he reads—it’s a sure sign that Ignis is keyed up.

Noctis can’t finish the last few bites of breakfast, but he does feel better for it. Less like his knees will give out on him if he gets up, not that he wants to test that again so soon. He starts stacking up his dishes, and Ignis swoops in immediately to transfer them to the service cart along with the last scraps of food. It only takes a couple moments for Ignis to clean up and hand off the cart to whoever’s waiting on the other side of the door to take it.

“There are a number of things I need to update you on, Highness.” Ignis settles back into his seat and reaches for a stack of papers.

“Wait,” Noctis says. The word comes out cracked along the edges, but Ignis does wait, long enough for Noctis to string together some more words. “I’m sorry, Ignis. For Saturday. What I asked you to do—asking you to go to Prompto, before we knew you couldn’t make it to the Citadel on time, that wasn’t fair.” 

“It wasn’t,” Ignis agrees. “It put me in an untenable position. There could have been more traitors in the Citadel besides Sestius, and leaving you alone for too long ultimately allowed you to engage in reckless behavior that put your health at risk. I should have returned to the Citadel immediately after the lockdown ended; that error is mine, and I ask your forgiveness for it.”

Noctis curls his fingers into fists underneath the table and snatches up every bit of diplomatic training he has to keep his voice from turning sharp. “My behavior is not your fault. You stayed with Prompto because I asked you to.”

Because after fucking up that phone call, Noctis thought that Prompto deserved to have a friend nearby, even if he didn’t explain why in his all-clear text to Ignis.

“I do not expect you to fend entirely for yourself on your best days, much less after a trauma such as this.”

“I’m not—” Noctis breathes deep. “Ignis. I probably would have done the same thing, even if you were in the Citadel. I just—I needed to _do_ something. And I know that making potions doesn’t cancel out all those people getting hurt because of me, but at least I wasn’t being useless.”

“Noctis, you are not to blame for that.”

Six, it’s good to hear Ignis use his name instead of his title. Maybe Ignis isn’t as furious with him as he thought, especially if he’s trying to spare Noctis’s feelings. “And you’re not to blame for the stupid shit I do when you aren’t looking.”

“I’m fairly certain that keeping you from doing ‘stupid shit’ is the core of my job description.”

Noctis can’t quite smile, but he thinks he might be able to, someday. “Forgive me, Ignis? For trying to make you choose between my happiness and my safety, and for scaring you yesterday.”

“Always,” Ignis says immediately. 

That single word is better than any blessing from the Six. Noctis uncurls his fingers. “Thanks. And—I forgive you, too. For not being here.” Better to just say it straight away, or else he’ll have to listen to Ignis ask for forgiveness again, even though it’s Noctis’s fault that he stayed with Prompto overnight. 

Ignis dips his head in acceptance. “I took the liberty of signing and dating the completed box of potions for you and sent it back to the armory. The remaining boxes are still on your desk.” 

A sign of trust. Ignis could have sent those back, too, to keep them out of Noctis’s reach. Noctis mentally vows not to create any more curatives unless someone else is present. Ignis deserves not to have his trust misplaced further.

“The situation has evolved overnight,” Ignis tries again, but Noctis stops him with questions of his own.

“How’s Prompto? Your text yesterday said he was out of sorts?”

If Ignis is annoyed to be interrupted for a second time, he doesn’t show it. He does, however, pause to gather his words. “Prompto is excellent at insisting he is fine; he is less skilled at being able to convince others of that. He did not open up to me, but he was—agitated, for lack of a better term, on Saturday night and remained so until my departure on Sunday. The few texts I’ve exchanged with him since then have all been vague. Did you two have a quarrel?”

“No. I don’t know. Prompto was just messing around. I’m the one who couldn’t take a joke.”

“A joke?”

“It’s nothing.”

“If it is still bothering you both, I very much doubt that.”

Noctis resists the urge to shove his hands in his pockets and run away from this conversation. The words have to be forced past his teeth. “He asked why he was even friends with me. I _know_ it was a joke, I was teasing him first, and when he asked that, I just—” he drags a hand over his face. “I practically hung up on him. And then I didn’t respond to any of his texts after you left his place yesterday because I was passed out and there hasn’t been anything else from him since then.”

When he looks up again, the lines of Ignis’s expression have softened into concern. It’s hard to keep eye contact when he looks like that. “Noctis, I’m certain Prompto will understand. One ill-timed joke isn’t enough to break your friendship.”

 _Maybe dying should be,_ Noctis thinks, and Gladio’s voice crashes through immediately: _Don’t hold it against him for doing my fucking job._

“However, continued silence will certainly strain it,” Ignis says, as calm as he is relentless. “I urge you to text or call him this morning. I think it will do you both good to reassure one another of where you stand.”

Noctis grimaces, but Ignis is right. Prompto has clearly left their communication in Noctis’s hands, and it’s up to him to reach out next. Prompto deserves that much from him. He deserves not to have such an awful friend. “Okay. You think he’s awake now?”

“Likely, but there are things I think it would be best to brief you on first, as Prompto may already be aware of them.”

That sounds ominous. Noctis straightens up a little in his chair. “What do you mean?”

Ignis pushes a smaller stack of papers to him, and Noctis picks it up. A quick glance reveals a too-long casualty list and bullet-point biographical sketches of the would-be assassins.

“After the casualty list was released yesterday, your former classmates identified Prompto as your friend to the public. This, in turn, created an unpleasant amount of speculation online regarding whether or not favoritism had anything to do with Prompto being the only one revived.”

If Noctis had a phoenix down on him like he was supposed to, Prompto’s survival absolutely would have been favoritism. “Has a statement been released denying that?”

“We didn’t need to.” There’s a long enough pause that Noctis glances up from paragraph detailing the two captured assassins’ injuries. Ignis’s brow is furrowed. “Noctis, footage of Prompto being revived was posted online.”

_—arches under the phoenix down as magic courses through him and drags him back to life—_

Noctis’s stomach plummets. “What?”

“Takedown notices have been issued repeatedly since the incident is still being investigated, but the damage has been done. A rather vocal segment of the public is now demanding disciplinary action for the team leader, Crownsguard Valeria, for breaking extraction protocol.”

“You can’t be serious.” Noctis hasn’t had a surge of anger like this since he yelled at Gladio in the lockdown room. “She _saved_ Prompto! If I’d known she had a phoenix down on her, I would have ordered her to use it.”

“Be that as it may, Valeria acted _without_ an order from you. Gladio argued that Valeria’s decision got you out of the mall quicker than if they’d tried to follow protocol and remove you by force, and Lord Amicitia agreed. He and Marshal Leonis intended to gloss over the details for the public report, but once the footage was posted—”

Ignis actually sighs, and Noctis knows that means things have gotten so much worse. “There was a protest at the Citadel gates last night, during and after the vigil for the victims. In addition to disciplinary action for Crownsguard Valeria, the protest leaders’ demands included an increase in healing items available to Insomnia’s civilian population and additional restrictions on border passes.”

Noctis sets aside the first stack of papers and takes the second stack when Ignis slides it over to him. This set contains a summary of the vigil and the protest, and while the vigil had a larger estimated crowd size, it still sickens him to see that nearly a thousand people showed up at the Citadel to argue that they deserved healing items more than the people actually fighting the godsdamned war on their behalf. 

He tries to keep control over his rising temper as he reads their other demands: decreasing the monthly quota of refugees allowed into Insomnia, stricter monitoring of those already within the Wall, legal mechanisms for kicking out any who are deemed to be “unproductive” or “unwilling to integrate” into Insomnian society, and so on. Noctis shoves this report aside, because it’s either that or he starts ripping it into pieces.

Noctis hasn't been outside the Wall since he was a child, but he has read the reports, or summaries of the reports, on conditions in the abandoned Lucian territories. Since graduating from high school, he has been attending more and more of the meetings that Ignis used to handle on his own, and he has a clearer grasp on what’s going on in the rest of the world than the average Crown Citizen.

And yet it’s infuriating that a vocal segment of Crown Citizens are acting as if they’ve already forgotten that Insomnia _abandoned_ so many of these territories. That one of the reasons there is a flood of refugees is because King Mors pulled back the Wall and sacrificed everything else to protect them. That they and their children haven’t had to worry about being drafted into the Lucian army to fight MTs and daemons since the Kingsglaive was created. 

Their lives are easier because others are shouldering the burdens of this war, and they have the gall to be angry over it.

(For one dizzying moment, Noctis has empathy for the men who tried to hurt him. Then he remembers that they intended to kill Prompto all along, and the feeling vanishes.)

“Another protest is being organized for this afternoon. We anticipate a larger crowd than last night,” Ignis says while he shuffles through his papers. “Captain Drautos and several Kingsglaive teams should arrive this morning to bolster Citadel security while the investigations into the Crownsguard are completed.”

Drautos was in Cleigne, based on the last report Noctis remembers reading. He and his people must have left the front lines within hours of the attempt on Noctis to be arriving today. Probably as soon as they realized there was a mole in the Crownsguard. “Will they be handling crowd control?”

“No, they’ll be within the Citadel. Lord Amicitia thought it better if the protestors weren’t squared off against the Kingsglaive.”

“You think there’s a chance for violence?”

“There is always a chance, however small. To minimize the risk, it was decided to use Crownsguard, and Crownsguard only, on the Citadel perimeter until things are settled. There will be more Kingsglaive within the Citadel on guard duty until then.”

There were Kingsglaive guarding his door yesterday, not Crownsguard, even if Crownsguard helped Gladio escort him to breakfast. Noctis considers the implications for a few heartbeats. “Will Drautos be conducting his own investigation?”

Something like pride flickers across Ignis’s face. He is always pleased when Noctis is able to make leaps like that on his own. “Not officially.”

Unofficially, then. Shit. The Crownsguard won’t like that, especially not the intelligence division. But they missed the signs that Sestius would betray the country—or someone among them was compromised and ignored it or aided him. The two groups generally get along, though that’s mostly because they ignore one another and have few overlapping responsibilities. If the Kingsglaive come in and start scrutinizing the Crownsguard as an organization, while a segment of the populace is already pissed about refugees and immigrants and the Kingsglaive’s use of resources, it could quickly become an even bigger mess.

His unease must be obvious, because Ignis pushes another stack of papers toward him. “Read through this, and I’ll make tea. Let me know if you have questions.”

Noctis murmurs his thanks and takes up the papers as Ignis steps away. It’s a traditional media and social media report summary, which breaks down the talking points that have been gaining traction in Insomnia. Noctis usually gets one of these only when public statements need to be drafted so whoever is doing the writing can choose to address or not address specific items.

Insomnians are just as angry as they are afraid, from the looks of it. He skips through the section on anti-refugee and -immigrant rhetoric but carefully reads the page detailing the public’s reactions to finding the assassins’ identities and digging up histories where they could be found. They’re up to five, now, who lost loved ones to Imperial forces. The internet also found a few inflammatory blog posts and comments from various assassins about how the king was favoring outsiders at the expense of his own people. The public reaction is, unsurprisingly, polarized, though it doesn’t look as if many are outright saying the assassins did the right thing. 

Small mercies. 

“Ignis, you got copies of any statements the Crown’s made?”

“In that stack, toward the end.” 

Noctis flips through until he finds the first page with royal letterhead. There’s a brief, dry statement from Saturday afternoon concerning the attack at the mall, reassuring the populace that Noctis is still alive, informing the city that the Citadel is on lockdown, offering condolences to the victims, and promising further information later. The next statement, from Saturday night, is longer, offering an outline of the events at the mall (vaguely, and minus Prompto's part), the end of the lockdown, the hunt for Otho Sestius, additional condolences to the victims and their families, and a plea to the public for any tips they may have regarding the incident.

There are more statements on Sunday, including the setup for the candlelight vigil, the official release of the victims’ names, and so on. The Crown also released the information that the assassins were attempting to kidnap and ransom Noctis—though not what, exactly, they wished to ransom him for. It’s glossed over as _displeasure regarding the current state of the war_ and does not mention the idea that Regis should extend the Wall.

Ignis returns with tea for them both, and he lets Noctis finish reading the summary in silence while he looks over something on his phone and scribbles notes. 

When he’s done with the Crown’s statements and reactions to them, Noctis flips through the papers again. He pauses when he finds the section labeled _Public Concerns._ He traces his thumb along the teacup handle while he reads it. 

“Ignis?”

“Yes, Noct?”

“How seriously are people taking my lack of a Crownsguard escort on Saturday?”

Ignis isn’t one for wincing, but the corners of his mouth pull tight. “It’s gaining steam. A number of people, within the Citadel and the public in general, have rightly pointed out that this particular ploy would not have worked had there been a team with you. Furthermore, we anticipate that the public will find out about the security contract we had with the mall.” When Noctis gives him a questioning look, Ignis explains, “The deceased team’s families are grieving, and the press is eager to get from them what they haven’t from the Crown. It’s likely the arrangement we had with security there will be uncovered.”

“Anything yet from the mall owners?”

“So far nothing more than requesting assurance that the Crown will pay for all damages, per the contract.” Every word is polite, but the subtle bite to Ignis’s voice makes his opinion on that clear to anyone who knows him. “We haven’t heard anything else from the other contracted locations.”

Will they? Noctis stares down at his half-empty tea cup. There are a handful of places he is allowed to go without Gladio or a Crownsguard escort, and they all have a similar security arrangement with the Crown as the one the Astral Plains Shopping Centre had. How long until they start deciding that they do not want the liability of a prince arriving without a detail surrounding him?

Noctis forces himself away from that line of self-pity. He’s the one who made it out alive. Why should he be upset about what this whole disaster means for his personal freedom when it’s weighed against the public’s safety? 

Against Prompto’s safety?

“Dad mentioned working with you on crafting statements yesterday,” Noctis makes himself say. “Do you have any recommendations?”

Ignis gestures toward yet another stack of paper. “I have a few ideas. But before we do that, I think it would be best if we took a break.”

It’s such an un-Ignis-like thing to say that Noctis frowns. “Okay?”

“You need to contact Prompto, and I want a shower and a fresh change of clothes.”

It can’t be more than half past seven. Noctis isn’t even sure if the sun is all the way up yet. “Were you here overnight?”

“I had a great deal of information that I needed to catch up on.”

And a prince to babysit, to make sure he didn’t wake up and do something reckless again while Ignis wasn’t looking.

“Shall we reconvene in an hour? That should give you enough time to shower and change as well.”

Noctis hesitates, but his relationship with Prompto is too important to keep fucking up for the sake of his pride. “What should I say to him? Beyond an apology, that is, I know that. Prompto deserves that. But is there—is there anything?”

“Do you want to encourage him in his desire to join the Crowsnguard?”

“I don’t know.” There’s the fear and the guilt, tying up his insides. The memory of Prompto, still on the bloodstained floor, Noctis unable to help him. “Do you?”

Ignis studies him for a long moment. “Prompto would not be joining the Crownsguard for my sake.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I would encourage him,” Ignis says quietly. “I will not until you’ve broached the subject with him or he comes to me for my opinion.”

“Why not?”

“Because I should not have sent you that picture of his progress chart in the first place, no matter that I assumed he was in league with you. I violated his privacy enough this weekend, I think.” Ignis retrieves his laptop and stands. “An hour, Noct?”

“Yeah. An hour.”

* * *

 

Noctis takes a shower and changes into more comfortable clothes before sitting cross-legged on his bed. Then he stares at the pictures and texts Prompto sent him since everything went down at the mall. He gives himself until eight to be a coward, and then he calls Prompto. It takes until the sixth ring for Prompto to pick up.

“Hey, Noct,” Prompto says. His voice is higher than usual, strained. Noctis feels awful for all the effort Prompto’s spending to fail sounding normal. “You’re up early.”

“Yeah. I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

“Nah, been up for a while now.”

“So have I.” Noctis sucks in a deep breath and steps off the verbal cliff because fuck him if he’s going to let Prompto think he’s angry at him for a minute longer. “Look, Prompto—I’m sorry. For the last time I called. I was an asshole. I know—I shouldn’t have hung up on you like that. And I’m sorry for leaving you hanging yesterday. You didn’t deserve that.”

He can hear Prompto breathing over the line, two unsteady exhalations. “You don’t have to apologize. That was a stupid joke for me to make.”

“Your joke wasn’t a problem. I was freaking out, okay? That you’d been hurt because of me. I mean—” Noctis swallows hard. “I fucked up so bad on Saturday. If I were you, I’d be pissed.”

“Good thing you’re not me, then.” Prompto is trying to sound breezy. It comes across like boulders dropped from the roof of the Citadel. “Are we good?”

No. How can they be, when Prompto sounds like this? But Prompto’s nearly as good at dodging difficult conversations as Noctis is, and Noctis can identify a silent plea for a subject change over a telephone. “Yeah. So long as you are.”

“Then we’re good.”

But Prompto doesn’t switch topics. He doesn’t say anything, and Noctis doesn’t know how to fill in the space yawning open between them. 

Noctis wants to ask if Prompto meant to trick him at the mall. If Prompto did it because he thought he’d have a chance to follow Noctis after blocking the southern escalators. If he did it knowing he wouldn’t. Noctis wants to ask when Prompto decided to start training for the Crownsguard entrance exam. Why he’s kept it secret. Why he wants to go from just being Noctis’s friend to joining Gladio and Ignis on the payroll.

If Prompto would still want to, if he knew that Noctis wants to pull him down to his bed, into his arms, and hold him there until his heart and mind believe that Prompto doesn’t hate him.

Gods, he’s so pathetic. This shouldn’t be about his ridiculous crush. This should be about Prompto.

“Do you need anything?” Noctis finally asks. “Are the Crownsguard treating you okay?”

“They’re fine. It’s not like we talk much. They’re in the hallway, and I’m stuck in here. I don’t even know who’s out there right now.”

“Let me know if you need anything, okay? Anything at all. Or tell Ignis.”

Noctis isn’t sure if he’s imagining the hitch in Prompto’s breathing. “How’s he doing?”

“He’s fine. Ambushed me with a bunch of paperwork first thing this morning.”

“Yeah?” There’s definitely _something_ weird going on with Prompto’s breathing. He’s not—he’s not crying, is he? Fuck. “He say anything about me?”

“Not a lot? Mostly just that you recovered okay,” Noctis says, because he’s not ready for the whole Crownsguard conversation right now. “You worried about something?”

“He was stuck in my crappy little studio for almost a whole day, dude. With just me. And I know I was unconscious for a good chunk of it, but still. I’m sure he had better things to do than babysit me.”

“Hey. That’s my best friend you’re talking shit about.”

Prompto snorts. His breathing is still a little off when he asks, “Do you know if anyone helped get me home? Besides Ignis?”

“No clue. Why?”

“I’d like to, uh, thank whoever? For helping me out. Getting me home and stuff. Is that weird?”

“It’s not weird. Want me to ask him?”

“Nah, I’ll do it. I just—thought maybe you knew.”

“Sorry, no idea.”

“That’s fine.” A deeper, steadier breath, crackling across the line. “How are you doing with all this? Can’t be easy.”

“Surviving. Ignis is going to come back in a bit and help me draft up a couple statements, see if there’s anything I can address that’ll help calm things down.”

“Oh, that’s good. It’s a mess out there, isn’t it? Online, too.”

“Yeah. You’ve seen it?”

There is a long pause on the other end, long enough that Noctis is already dreading the answer when it arrives. “Some. There’s—not exactly a whole lot else to distract me right now. Last weekend’s the only thing anyone’s talking about.”

“How about…” The Crownsguard verified his phone was clear. He doesn’t reuse this password or have the account connected to anything else. “I’m going to text you my account name and password for Moogleflix. Go ahead and create a profile for yourself. Watch whatever you want.”

“I don’t want to take over your account.”

“I’ve got the two screens subscription,” Noctis lies. He will, as soon as he hangs up, logs in, and upgrades the account. “And it’s not like I’m going to use it much right now with everything going on here.”

“...you sure?”

“I’m sure. Think you could find us something good to watch when this is all over? To make up for the movie we missed.”

“Yeah,” Prompto says. “Yeah, I can do that. Thanks, Noct.”

Prompto doesn’t sound happy. But he does sound less stressed, and his breathing is closer than it used to be to normal. Noctis will take whatever he can get.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sure hope you’re ready for another long conversation with Ignis. Oh, and before I forget, Emergency Protocol Talk has a [pod-fic version](https://anchor.fm/corrinne-rosquillo/episodes/Emergency-Protocol-Talk-e53h4q), courtesy of [HardNoctLife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HardNoctLife/pseuds/HardNoctLife). Give it a listen!
> 
> Also, if you want some actual requited promptis from me instead of this unrequited mess, I posted [Down to Embers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20827829)—but fair warning, it’s canon-compliant and set during chapter fourteen. So. Yeah.

According to her personnel files, Pax Valeria has served as a member of the Crownsguard for eighteen years. Her service record is largely unblemished; there are a few formal reprimands from her earlier years, but the last ten have been discipline-free, including her four years as a team leader. According to her most recent review, she intends to retire from the Crownsguard entirely once she hits her twenty years and take her pension rather than trying to transition to a desk job. By every measure they have, she is a dedicated and loyal servant to the Crown.

She is, Ignis thinks sourly, going to make an excellent scapegoat.

The Council won’t put it in such crude terms, of course. They will praise her for her many years of service and for her part in leading the team that saved the crown prince from irreversible death. They will commend her for her bravery and her loyalty and for the compassion that led her to make a small,  _ regrettable _ decision. They will have the gall to frame it as a favor, a final act of service, if she will only agree to save them a growing political headache.

The report on Monday’s protest indicated the crowd nearly doubled in size compared to Sunday’s. At least there hadn’t been any violence. Another protest should be starting soon.

Ignis thought Noctis was upset when he read through all the reports Monday morning, but this morning’s report hit him much harder. All the work they put into crafting statements yesterday had done little to sway public opinion.

Watching Noct’s expression go from disbelief straight into a brittle sort of anger had stung. Ignis knows he can’t force the segment of Insomnia determined to leverage tragedy for their political purposes to give up their agendas, but for a moment he wishes it were possible.

Noctis has never been eager for the throne, and he normally has a wellspring of goodwill for the people. His public school attendance, brief stint of part-time work, and friendship with Prompto gave Noctis an intimate connection with Insomnia’s general populace that King Regis hadn’t been able to cultivate as closely. It will be an asset to his eventual reign.

Ignis worries that goodwill is in danger of drying up. But mostly he worries for Noctis, who reads report after report on Tuesday of literal strangers debating if the  _ correct _ thing to do was letting his best friend stay dead.

(A friend who even now worries about accepting things that are given to him because he thinks he has little right to them. Prompto texted Ignis earlier Tuesday morning:  _ Hey, sorry to bug you, but I think your account’s been hacked or something. _

_ Everything appears to be in working order.  _

_ You did NOT just send me a ¥30000 gift card for delivery on purpose. _

_ Prompto, you’re in protective custody for the remainder of the week. The leftovers should be gone by now, I trust? Making you go hungry would be counterproductive to helping you. Use the gift card to order in the app under a pseudonym and let me know if you run out. _

It takes nearly ten minutes to get a response:  _ This is way too much. _

_ Consider it your tax return, then. _

_ Did you seriously buy me a week of delivery with tax money? _

Ignis sighs and then waves off Noct’s look of mild concern. Noctis turns his attention back to the vial in his hands and the Kingsglaive supervising him.  _ Prompto, it would ease my mind if you would just accept it. We can discuss this later if you wish, face to face. _

Another long pause follows, long enough that Ignis is surprised when he finally gets another text:  _ Yeah, okay, let’s talk later. Thanks, Ignis. _ )

There’s a loud knock at the door, just two sharp raps. “Come in,” Ignis calls out, and as expected, Gladio steps into his office. 

Gladio is still in full, formal uniform. His hair is pulled back neatly, and his eyes do a quick sweep of the room before he frowns. “Where Noct?”

“Sleeping,” Ignis answers. He rises from behind his desk and motions for Gladio to follow him over to the sitting area on the other side of his office. 

“You serious?”

There are times when he might drag out needling Gladio; all things considered, it would be wise not to today. “Yes. He spent two hours before lunch working with Glaive Attia to create potions. I insisted he take a nap so he won’t fall asleep during his meeting with the king later this afternoon.”

Gladio grunts in acceptance and drops into his usual seat, the leather armchair that gives him the best view of both the door and the window. Ignis is willing to concede the seat because it is Gladio who is taking it. 

Ignis opts for the couch that Noct usually sprawls across, which puts him perpendicular to Gladio and his back to the window, rather than the armchair that would put him directly across. It’s a small bit of maneuvering, a simple attempt to reinforce that this meeting is intended in the spirit of collaboration, not confrontation, even if the conversation turns fraught.

It’s also an obvious bit of maneuvering, judging by the look Gladio sends his way. But he must be willing to follow Ignis’s lead for now; he sinks back into the armchair like he’s wearing his normal uniform instead of sitting ramrod straight in his formal one. The gesture signals a willingness to truly spend time here, and Ignis allows himself to relax as well.

“Where do you want to start?” Gladio asks. 

“The mood in the Citadel,” Ignis answers immediately. “Most of my attention has been focused on Noct, the Council, or the public. I haven’t been able to keep up on that as well as I’d like.”

“Well, the Crownsguard is pissed, on a couple levels. That one of their own was a traitor, that Sestius got out of the city, and that Kingsglaive got sent in pursuit instead of them.” Gladio counts each point off on his fingers. “On top of that, Drautos is back with his people, and some are interpreting that as the king not trusting the Guard fully anymore. The Glaive’s doing their best to be subtle, but it’s pretty damned obvious to any Crownsguard officer with a hint of political savvy that some off-the-record investigations are going on, and their people are the targets. Dad and Cor are trying to stamp out trouble before it gets out of control, but they can’t be everywhere.”

About what Ignis expected, though worse than what he’d hoped. Unmasking a traitor was bad enough; to lose him, then come under scrutiny on top of that, made the betrayal all the worse. “Any violence?”

“Not yet, but there were a couple times team leaders had to go tell their people to take a walk.” Gladio is quiet for a moment, then adds, “Valeria’s going to be the next flash point. How she’s treated—a lot of the Guard are watching that closely. They’re not happy about her being stuck behind a desk right now."

"What of Valeria?"

"She's keeping her thoughts to herself.”

“Most Crownsguard are in her favor, do you think?”

“Yeah. After this long in the service, she’s got a lot of friends, especially with the rank and file. Not so much among the officers since she took so long to get to a team lead. But if Valeria gets demoted or discharged—there’s going to be a lot of people who will see it as more evidence the Crownsguard have fallen in His Majesty’s estimation. They’ll take what happens to her personally.”

There’s a sharp undertone to Gladio’s words that has Ignis frowning. “What is it?” he presses when Gladio stops there. 

Anger, quickly suppressed, flashes across Gladio’s face. He’s better at controlling his expression, but he isn’t as good at keeping it out of his voice. “Some of the Crownsguard are of the opinion that Valeria deserves a reprimand for ‘wasting resources.’ That she shouldn’t have risked an additional strike against the Guard’s reputation for Prompto’s life.”

Ignis doubts those sentiments were framed as neutrally as Gladio is relaying them. He wonders briefly if Gladio had to be ordered by someone to go take a walk.

It shouldn’t be a surprise that there’s a segment of the Crownsguard that thinks that way. They are just as Insomnian as the people protesting at the Citadel gates. But the knowledge still comes with a sharp disappointment in his fellows that Ignis will have to reconcile on his own time. 

“You have any idea how it will all shake out?” Gladio asks. 

“Nothing official,” Ignis says. “Valeria has yet to be discussed in a formal Council session, though I think it likely she will be made a scapegoat in all this. It’s the simplest solution.”

“And the one most full of shit.”

Ignis isn’t inclined to argue with that. “Any word regarding the security contracts?”

“Two places have reached out so far. They want to know what the Crown’s plan is to prevent something like this from happening again, even though all the evidence we’ve found points to this group working on its own. We’ll have to catch Sestius to verify that. Monica’s handling the discussion, last I heard. We might lose the contracts.”

Also something Ignis expected but hoped wouldn’t happen. By the time this is all over, he may have to break the news to Noctis that he is no longer allowed outside his apartment or the Citadel without at least one Crownsguard member shadowing him. That, Ignis knows, will go poorly. Having some semblance of privacy, of normality, has been incredibly important to Noctis. And then to lose it, after everything that happened—

“We’ll make other arrangements, if it comes to it.”

That earns a derisive snort from Gladio. “Since I’ve got such a great record,” he says. The bitterness is thick between his words. “I never should have let Noctis badger me into accepting these security contracts as a substitute for an actual Crownsguard team.”

There it is. Ignis keeps his voice mild, restrained. “As I remember it, I also thought the plan had merit.”

“What’s the point in being Noct’s Shield if I’m not even there when something like this goes down? This wasn’t some damned drunk on the street. Noct’s safety is  _ my  _ responsibility—”

“And none of mine?”

“Don’t give me that shit, Ignis. Like any of this is on you, even if you—”

“Even if I made it obvious to any observers with ill intent that Noctis had a standing appointment outside the Citadel?” Ignis says, and this time he lets the edges of his anger at himself show. “One high enough of a priority that only a public event, the Council, or His Majesty could get me to reschedule it?”

“Ignis—”

“I’m only willing to concede that you are to blame for where the attack happened if you’re willing to accept it’s my fault Sestius knew when to do so.”

Gladio’s jaw works, but much of the fight has faded from his voice when he asks, “You think Sestius was watching Noct’s schedule?”

“Four months ago, Sestius attempted to schedule a security briefing on behalf of his commanding officer during Noctis and Prompto’s movie day,” Ignis answers. He keeps a tight grip on his guilt; Cor attempted to absolve him of it when Ignis made the connection and confessed his theory. Ignis is far less willing to let it go. “I declined it and asked him to reschedule for a day Noctis would be in the Citadel. He sent additional requests at three months and two months as well, all within the five hours on Saturdays I typically block off for Noct to spend time with Prompto.”

He doesn’t know when Sestius followed Noctis to the mall, but it must have been one of those days. A day Sestius knew Noctis wouldn’t be at the Citadel yet had an inflexible appointment, something more important than a routine security briefing. How many times had Sestius, or one of the other assassins, stalked Noctis there?

The only reason Sestius didn’t know the codes changed—the only reason Noctis knew that something was wrong when the assassins arrived—was that he took emergency parental leave when his wife went into premature labor with their child. A child with four weeks left in an incubator at the hospital, and a wife left behind to face hours of questioning when her husband fled the city without so much as a goodbye.

Gladio scrubs his hand over his face, and Ignis is grimly satisfied by the tell. “Fine. We both fucked up. And not just with Noct, we fucked up with Prompto, too.”

(Ignis rolls up his sleeves and keeps his focus on the rise and fall of Prompto’s chest and the pulse fluttering at his throat as he strips Prompto of his ruined clothing. He doesn’t let himself get distracted by the blood growing tacky on Prompto’s skin and in his hair. Shirt, jeans, socks, and boxers end up in a garbage bag one of the Crownsguard hands through the partially open door—there isn’t enough space inside the bathroom for more than Ignis to kneel in the gap between the tub and the sink. He trades the bag for a towel and washcloth and balances them on the edge of the tub.

He tells the first Crownsguard to find clean clothes and then stand guard at the front door; he recites a list of ingredients to the second and sends her off to buy food while he starts the water. The third and fourth are outside the little studio apartment. 

Ignis carefully lifts Prompto’s right arm out of the tub and drapes it over the edge before the water can reach it. There’s blood all over his arm and smeared across the wristband. Prompto has worn the favor every day since Noctis gave it to him in high school. They’d both be upset if it stained. 

Ignis squeezes Prompto’s forearm; Prompto’s fingers don’t twitch, and the rhythm of his breathing doesn’t change in the slightest. Ignis weighs the chance of Prompto waking against the possible ruin of the wristband and the distress that would cause Noctis and Prompto. The last thing Ignis wants to do is deliver either of them additional bad news when a few minutes is all it would take to prevent it, with neither of them the wiser.

Ignis slides his fingers to the buckle and undoes it before he can dither any longer. He expects a birthmark, braces himself for the possibility of scars. 

He doesn’t know what to do with the barcode tattooed on the back of Prompto’s wrist.)

“We did,” Ignis says. “We failed to anticipate there would be a time when Noctis might need to warn Prompto about something covertly, or vice versa. If Prompto hadn’t pieced together the clues Noctis gave him and his own observations, the assassins may have gotten them both into the car.”

“Blondie’s smart. Quick on his actual feet, too. You see his footage from the mall?” When Ignis nods, Gladio continues, “We’ve got to figure out something to make sure this can’t happen again. Think we could get some kind of security clearance for Prompto?”

Ignis shakes his head, even if  _ he wants to join the Crownsguard _ sits heavy on his tongue. It may not even be true anymore. The fact that Prompto hid his progress chart indicates he’s unwilling to bring his secret ambition to light at the moment. “Not as a civilian. The emergency codes aren’t available to their clearance levels. And even if we were able to talk intelligence into giving him that high a level, it would take weeks, if not months, to clear a background check. I think it would be more expedient to create a simpler, informal system for Prompto. If it’s just the four of us, we also wouldn’t have to change the codes so frequently.”

Gladio eyes him. “How much thought have you already put into this?”

“Let me know when you have the time, and I’ll send you what I’ve drafted so far.”

“That much, huh?” Gladio’s voice is dry. “I’ll swap you for the changes I’m making to Noct’s training regimen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Prompto. Poor Prompto.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at [tumblr](http://audreyskdramablog.tumblr.com/) & [twitter](https://twitter.com/audreyskdrama) if you like.


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